Balamb Blues
by gwendolyn-flight
Summary: Squall finally gets the help he needs. Or does he?
1. 01 Butterfly in Reverse

A/N This is kind of a response to events occurring in my fic   
Complete Me, Miserable, so I guess this is a sequel, written   
before its prequel is even finished, and it won't be entirely   
consistent, plot-wise. But hey, it'll give you some idea of how   
bad things are going to get in Complete. Heh.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Any resemblence to situations  
real or imagined is less than coincidental, but names and even  
universes have been changed to protect the innocent. Everything  
I complain about involving mental wards, etc, is true, and in fact  
toned down a bit so it will seem less fantastical.  
  
Warning: R for language and eventual slash. Oh, and reference  
to drug use and rape, as well as some gruesome descriptions  
of various mental illness. Thank my Bio of the Mind course. Heh.  
  
**********************  
Balamb Blues  
**********************  
It all started with a phone call.  
  
Such an innocent way to begin.  
  
I was at work, idly flipping through a month-old Weapons Weekly,   
when my comm went off -- always bad news on a Thursday. My hat   
rested on the table by the sleek device; it was left behind as I fled   
to a window hoping for better reception.  
  
"Irvine here," I answered, cutting off the rising chirps before any   
students were disturbed. They were testing on Sniping: Theory and   
Reality in the next room.  
  
"Irvine?" A small voice, somewhat scared. It took me a few moments   
to identify the speaker.  
  
"Squall?! What's going on?" I could hear wind in the background,   
engines, perhaps breathing. "Where are you?"  
  
"In the back of a patrol car," he answered. To anyone else he would've   
sounded calm, but I could hear the rising panic in his voice.  
  
"Military or civilian?" I barked. "What's going on?"  
  
"Civilian," Squall said. "They're taking me to the Med."  
  
Balamb Medical Center. Not a place you wanted to go.  
  
"Why, was there an accident? Why aren't they bringing you to Doc   
Kadowaki?" I was pacing now, trying to stay in the patch on sunlight   
that represented good reception. Squall's breathing was a bit too   
rapid for my peace of mind.  
  
"No," he answered, voice going even lower. "I, ah . . . There're bringing   
me in for a psych evaluation."  
  
"To the MED?!" I yelled, feeling a fine sense of outrage curl from my gut.   
My commander? To that soulless machine of a medical facility? I don't   
think so!  
  
"Emergency protocol," he near-whispered. I had to strain to hear him,   
but didn't ask him to speak up. I understood his reticence. "They said . . ."  
  
"Yes?" I prompted gently.  
  
"Garden doesn't have the resources for suicide watch."  
  
We were both silent for a few moments.  
  
"Squall?"  
  
"I didn't do anything," he said. His voice was closer to normal that it had   
been for the rest of this conversation. "I was just talking."  
  
"To *who*?!" I screamed in a whisper, clenching my free hand so tightly   
that my knuckles ached.  
  
"Kadowaki told me to see a therapist," he said, voice now its usual   
monotone. Like he was reporting for a mission. "So I saw a therapist."  
  
"And she . . .?"  
  
"Panicked. Called the Balamb PD."  
  
"Shit," I said, feeling helpless for a moment. "Are you okay?" I asked   
inanely, not knowing what else to say. He breathed harshly, like a subdued   
sob.  
  
"No," he said once his voice was again under control. He dropped down   
to a whisper again. "I'm scared, Irvine."  
  
"Look, it'll be okay," I lied frantically. It had to be *horrible* for Squall to   
show this much emotion in public. "They can't keep you for more than   
seventy-two hours, right? I don't think longer than that is legal."  
  
"Seventy-two hours?" he repeated. He sounded shell-shocked.  
  
"And surely they'll let you go once you straighten all this out. You weren't   
really going to try anything, right? You can just explain to them that you   
didn't mean it, right?"  
  
"But Irvine, I . . ." he trailed off into a humming silence. The patrol unit's   
radio squawked. Squall breathed. I bit my lip.  
  
"Well, who's in charge while you're . . ." I asked, hoping to distract him.  
  
"Xu is next in command, then Quistis," he said, voice business-like again.   
  
"Do they know?" I asked hesitantly. I student appeared in my office door,   
test in hand. I waved him off impatiently. "Who should I tell?"  
  
Squall was silent for a long moment.  
  
"Just the Orphans," he said finally. "If it can be kept quiet . . ."  
  
"Absolutely, yes," I agreed. If the world found out that its savior was in the   
downtown Balamb psych ward . . . "But what about Rinoa? Should I tell her?"  
  
"Hn," he snorted, not quite laughter. "She'd probably enjoy the news," he   
said darkly.  
  
"So this time was . . .?"  
  
"Final," he confirmed wearily. The patrol car rattled over a set of train tracks,   
into the newer industrial sector of Balamb. I could hear the ocean beneath   
Squall's quiet voice. "She's with someone, a lawyer, I think."  
  
"Ah," I said intelligently. She'd left him before, but they'd always made up   
eventually. "Do you know why . . .?"  
  
"Something I told her," he said flatly, obviously wanting to drop the subject.   
I cursed the handheld for a moment, wishing we'd splurged on the video   
kits at Selphie's request. If I could only *see* him . . . I might be able to   
figure *something* out.  
  
"Listen, I'll call your father," I said, suddenly energized. "He can sort this   
out."  
  
"*No*!" Squall said urgently, his voice filled with more emotion than I could   
remember ever hearing from him. "I don't want him to find out."  
  
"But --"  
  
"No! I just found him," he continued, voice quiet again. "I don't want . . ."  
  
"I know," I reassured him. And I did understand. If I ever find my father, I   
want him to be proud of me, not . . . Why did this have to happen *now*?   
"Okay, look, I'll come down there, make sure they look after you. Zell can   
come, and maybe Selphie?"  
  
"I don't really . . . I don't think they'll *let* you . . ."  
  
"Let them try and stop us," I blustered, trying to laugh, concealing the very   
real threat behind those words. If they hurt Squall . . .   
  
"Irvine, I . . . thank you," he said, whispering the last so softly that I had to   
strain to hear. I smiled gently, knowing he could hear it in my voice.  
  
"That's what friends are for, right?" I said gamely, hoping that this if nothing   
else would convince him of that fact. He seemed to sniffle, though that could   
have been my imagination. "Let me just call everyone, and I'll call you right   
back. I'm not leaving you alone for any of this," I promised.  
  
"Okay," he said shakily, sounding relieved.   
  
"See you in a bit," I said, waiting for his affirmative before cutting the connection.  
  
Those mother-fucking bastards.  
  
Zell was reached quickly enough; I wasted more time explaining the situation   
to him than I had in tracking him down. His main argument seemed to be   
"What?!" and "Is that legal?!", so I told him to meet me at the car in fifteen   
just to shut him up.  
  
Quistis was not so easy, but she'd already been informed by that fucking   
'therapist', or whatever the bitch wanted to call herself. Quistis told me that   
the bitch hadn't even bothered informing the Balamb PD of the *reason* for   
Squall's incarceration, citing doctor-patient confidentiality or some such   
bullshit.   
  
"Now who knows what they think he's done," she said, frantic with worry.   
I grimaced, hating that she had to stay behind to run the ship.  
  
"So they'll just toss him in with the real crazies?" I asked, becoming more   
and more worried as this conversation continued. My handset would probably   
need replacing before the end.  
  
"Yes," she ground out. "The idiot woman didn't even think of that. Just decides   
that they can better handle suicide elsewhere and then doesn't even bother   
telling the hospital staff about it."  
  
"Wow," I breathed, a bit taken aback. "Angry, much?"  
  
"I can't stand incompetence," she growled. "That Havelock woman has much   
to answer for. She was probably the one feeding him that depression-  
nonsense in the first place!"  
  
"Nonsense?" I questioned.  
  
"Yes! Squall was admittedly sad, Rinoa had left him again after all, but clinical   
depression lasts for several weeks, if not months, and this by definition!"  
  
"You *have* been doing your research," I muttered, but she just rolled right over   
my interruption.  
  
"And even if he was depressed, which I don't believe, he would be far better   
off in an environment with friends, with a support group, with people he *trusts*   
with his life, not those idiots down at the Med!"  
  
"I agree," I broke in. "Which is why I'm rounding up Zell and Selphie to go down   
there with me and keep an eye on him."  
  
"Good plan," she sighed. "I wish I could go, but I'll need to squash any word of   
this right now, before it gets out. And Selphie's still in Fisherman's Horizon,   
remember?"  
  
"Oh, right," I returned, glaring blankly at one wall. "Call her for me, okay? I should   
get down there."  
  
"Will do," she said snappily, our old game of military chain-of-command. I nearly   
smiled.  
  
"Irvine out." I responded in like vein, flipping the comm shut with something like   
relief. We had a plan. Everything would be taken care of. We'd get Squall back.  
***  
  
A/N Well, I've set up some nice foreshadowing. This will be continued, if I get enough reviews. 


	2. 02 Pull Me Out from Inside

Dedicated to Fizban. Damn the man!  
  
Warning: Just language on this one.  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned this, would I be asking Santa to repair my   
car for Christmas?  
  
********************  
Balamb Blues 02  
********************  
  
Did I mention that I was angry with Squall's erstwhile 'therapist'?  
  
"What do you mean, he hasn't been assigned a room yet?!"  
  
Fuck that. I'm going to kill her.  
  
"It's been ten hours, woman!" I panted, leaning over the desk to   
glare into the receptionist's eyes through thick Plexiglas. "I want to   
see him, now!"  
  
"I'm afraid you can't go back there, sir," she grated. Nerves of steel,   
those bitches. I glared. She glowered. "I'll let you know as soon as   
he's been seen by a doctor."  
  
Surely this was grounds for justifiable homicide.  
  
"What are they *doing* back there?" I moaned, scuffing back over to   
Zell, shoulders slumped. He was sitting against the wall, head nestled   
against his knees.  
  
"I still think we should bust him outta there," Zell said, not bothering to   
raise his head.  
  
"And have them put out an APB on him?" I snorted. "Great idea, genius.   
Let's just hold a press conference and announce to the world that the   
Lion of Balamb is stark raving."  
  
"Fuck the rest of the world," Zell snarled, surging to his feet so quickly   
that I jerked back. His fists were clenched, and the vein at his temple   
was throbbing. "This is *Squall* we're talking about! We can't let them   
treat him like this!"  
  
I looked around. The waiting room was empty, aside from us, the   
receptionist, and a bouquet of wilting yellow flowers. Gardenias, I believe   
they were. The fluorescent overheads flickered. It was close to four in the   
morning.  
  
"I know," I said, tiredly. I turned to meet his angry eyes again. "Maybe . . ."  
  
"What?" Zell asked, his voice dangerous. I'd forgotten how much Zell   
cared for the commander.  
  
"What if he does need help?" I asked, keeping my voice low.   
  
Zell stepped back, arms dropping out of combat stance with his shock.  
  
"You think he's . . .?"  
  
"Suicidal? Probably," I whispered, glaring at him as my own anger awoke.   
"Wouldn't you be? Shouldn't we all be? He fucking saved the world and   
what did they do? Shoved on more responsibility, more expectations, threw   
him a father he tries desperately to please even while wishing the man had   
never been found. And on top of all this, Rinoa . . ."  
  
I had backed Zell into the wall. He stared up at me like *I* might be crazy.  
  
"Irvine, maybe he needs help," Zell began carefully. "But that's not what   
he's getting here." He threw a wild gesture toward the fuck-off attitude   
of the receptionist. "Maybe he should book himself into Oceanview for   
a few days, maybe see someone about that pesky PTSD, but he's not   
*insane*."  
  
It was my turn to back off.  
  
"I know that," I said uncertainly. The overheads flickered again, buzzing   
into shadow, then light. I was unutterably weary. "I know that."  
  
"Hyne damn it, I just spoke to him not an hour before you called," Zell continued   
in a desperate whisper. "He was *fine*. Well," he paused suddenly, eyes   
shifting aside. "No worse than usual. He just thinks about it sometimes, you   
know? It's his way of blowing off steam."  
  
"I've seen his scars," I answered quietly.   
  
Zell froze.   
  
"How?" he said breathlessly.  
  
"Shower," I said nonchalantly.  
  
"But he *never* showers with anyone else in the bathroom," Zell protested,   
head coming up suspiciously.  
  
I raised an eyebrow.  
  
"He trusts a few people, Zell," I said quietly, non-confrontationally. I didn't want   
to sound accusatory.  
  
"But not me?" he asked anyway. I sighed, and stepped away to fall into a   
covered, wood-frame chair. It was actually rather comfortable.   
  
"You know I didn't mean it that way," I sighed again, draping my arms across   
the seatback. He slouched over to sit across from me. I met his eyes. "It's just,   
with my reputation, and Seifer . . ."  
  
Zell winced at his lover's name.  
  
"Yeah, I guess he would feel safer with you," he conceded darkly, glaring   
down at his gloves. I checked the clock again; it was beginning to become   
an habitual tic.   
  
I sighed.  
  
"He was exhausted," I said quietly. "He could barely stand. It was help him   
bathe or let him go to sleep filthy, and the Doc was having none of that."  
  
"When was this?" Zell asked, sounding incensed.  
  
"Esthar, I think," I mused, staring at the peacefully beige walls. Just sitting   
here could drive a man insane, and a forced stay was supposed to help?!   
"After Ultima Weapon."  
  
"Yeah," Zell agreed vaguely. "I don't remember that visit very well."  
  
"We were trashed," I confirmed, settling more firmly into the chair. I checked   
the clock again. It was nearing the fifteen minute mark.  
  
"And Squall just let you . . .?"  
  
"No," I scoffed. "But he was under doctor's orders, and he was too tired to   
really argue effectively, so . . ."  
  
"Death glare's not so scary when he's yawning," Zell nodded, sounding as   
though he spoke from experience.  
  
I chuckled tiredly.  
  
"True enough," I said roughly, hauling myself upright. Zell followed me with   
weary eyes as I stalked back to the main desk.  
  
The woman glared at me. I leaned my forehead against the bullet-proof glass,   
smirking.  
  
"I'd like to see Squall Leonheart, please," I said pleasantly, as though this were   
my first visit of the day. She was not amused.  
  
"I cannot release any information on that patient, sir," she said flatly.  
  
I was beginning to become exasperated.  
  
"You haven't even checked on him in hours," I snapped. "At least go see if   
they've taken him to a room!"  
  
I was aware that my hat had been crushed against the Plexiglas shielding.   
She stared up at me for a long moment, before standing.  
  
"You wait right there," she said firmly, breaking our matched glares only to   
retreat through the bolted, hermetically-sealed door. You'd think she had a   
fortune in Phoenix Downs back there, the way they treated security.  
  
She was gone for ages. I swear the world was covered in ice, carved by   
glaciers, and thawed into tropical warmth before she returned, face pale   
and wan, almost grey. I quit my pacing with an abruptness that jerked Zell's   
sleeping head upright, and lunged for the desk.   
  
"Well???" I asked urgently, fingers cramping on the thin rim of counter not   
caught behind shielding. What must Squall be going through?  
  
She didn't speak for a moment. I bitterly regretted that security had made   
me leave my guns in the car.  
  
"He, ah . . ."  
  
"Spit it out! Where is he?!"  
  
"He was transferred."  
  
I think I just blinked at her for a moment.  
  
Transferred?  
  
"To what department?" My voice sounded very far away, buried somewhere   
beneath the building rage.  
  
"To, ah, to BMHI," she stuttered.  
  
Balamb Mental Health Institute.  
  
Erected after the first Sorceress War.   
  
Locus of nearly every hospital-related horror story told in the Garden dorms.   
  
A subsidiary of the Med.  
  
"When," I growled dangerously. She appeared to be frightened, at last.  
  
"At, um, around two."  
  
"You have to be kidding." That from Zell. He'd definitely woken up. And they   
hadn't known to keep his gloves at the door.  
  
"No, the, ah, the paperwork just came through," she said, nodding idiotically   
as though confirming their tardy actions could make the situation any better.  
  
I think I literally saw red for a minute. I'm not really sure, I just remember   
clawing at safety glass like a trapped panther, the receptionist cowering   
against the far wall.  
  
This is only in flashes, understand.  
  
The next clear bit came with Zell's arms around my chest; we were both on   
the floor, like he'd grabbed me and flung us both onto hard tile. The receptionist   
had a phone in her shaking hands; the cord was trembling in almost perfect   
circles. The clock was nearing the fifteen minute mark.  
  
"Stop this, Irvine," Zell was muttering into my hair. "This isn't helping, stop it."  
  
I let out my breath in a soundless gasp, and slumped into his arms. He nearly   
fell back under the increase in weight. We lay there for a moment. Security   
pounded through the beige double doors, their powder-blue uniforms almost   
psychedelic in the decorative monotony.   
  
"Sir?" The receptionist said, voice back to its usual haughty tones now that her   
reinforcements had arrived. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  
  
I'd gone empty somehow.  
  
The security team loomed in fine threatening fashion.  
  
I stared blankly at the receptionist.  
  
"Irvine?" Zell asked, tugging at the sleeve of my duster. My hat had fallen into   
the corner. The edge of one brim had curled oddly. "Irvine, we should go find   
Squall."  
  
"Visiting hours are between seven-thirty and eight-thirty," the receptions said   
superciliously. "And that's *if* they let you see him."  
  
"What?" My voice sounded dead.  
  
"What kind of bullshit is this?!" Zell elaborated. "We've been waiting to see him   
all night! He *needs* us!"  
  
"Yes, well," the receptionist sniffed. "The doctors will have to decide that."  
  
"Fuck you!" Zell growled, dropping me abruptly to the floor as he gained his feet.   
"They can't keep him there!"  
  
She didn't answer, secure behind her glass.  
  
One of the security men stepped forward tentatively. Apparently they knew who   
we were.  
  
"Sir, could you come with us, please?" he asked nicely. I climbed to my feet,   
retrieved my hat, and followed them without another word.  
  
Somehow, antagonizing the receptionist didn't seem so important anymore.  
***  
  
A/N Oh good, another chapter. Next time, Irvine and Zell find Squall, and Selphie   
returns from Fisherman's Horizon. 


	3. 03 Through Myself and Back Again

********************  
Balamb Blues 03  
********************  
I bought him flowers.  
  
It was all I could think to do.  
  
And anyway, it went together, right? Hospitals and flowers. Yeah.  
  
We stayed the night with Ma Dincht, to save us the drive. She   
was just getting up for the day when we stumbled blind into her   
doorstep. I would've slept anywhere, on the back of a running   
Chocobo, anywhere at all, but she gave me her own bed. Zell   
staggered upstairs. I slept till nearly five, and when I left to track   
down a get-well bouquet Zell was still snoring.   
  
I wasn't even sure of Squall's favorite flower. Probably something   
like a rose, except Rinoa loved roses. So no use in going there.  
  
The florist was really very helpful. She was a pert little thing, maybe   
Selphie's height, if that, with bright pink hair that, strangely enough,   
complimented her milk-pale complexion. She recommended spider   
lilies, yellow, long-stemmed. I didn't even have a vase.  
  
I dithered for about twenty minutes, smelling lilacs and irises and   
fingering the lilies. I decided on gladiolas at seven twenty, threw   
cash on the counter, and ran for the door. I couldn't be late, not for   
this! The vase was heavy, water sloshed as I ran, and all I could   
think was why in hell did they have to expand Balamb to the west?   
Why not north? Make it wider instead of longer, instead of stretching   
out along the train tracks like some river-town. It was a long walk.  
  
BMHI is this low, ugly concrete and Plexi-glass compound, surrounded   
by more wire fences than a prison and two depressingly tiny parking   
lots. Did no one ever visit? Even the trees were drooping and sad with   
neglect against the sheer rigidity of the too-modern sprawl. Ironically   
enough, it squatted beside the shiny new Loire Children's Hospital.   
Squall's father had always had a soft spot for children. Just not his   
own.  
  
Zell was no where to be found, but as I stood panting in the empty lot,   
flowers clutched in one hand, hat in the other to fan myself, he trotted   
around the north corner at battle-speed.  
  
He was carrying a back pack, and slowed to a stumbling walk when   
he saw me.  
  
"Flowers," I explained when he came to a stop, holding up the bouquet   
like an offering or a shield.  
  
"I didn't know," he panted. "What Squall might want. So I brought some   
of my old stuffed toys."  
  
I raised one brow. Thinking, Squall and stuffed animals? It didn't seem   
to fit, but looking at that glass building, I just nodded. Gestured to the   
complex.  
  
"Shall we?" I prompted. He remained still for a moment, catching his   
breath.  
  
"Should we call someone?" he asked, looking uncertain.  
  
"After," I said. "We should probably ask him if he wants anyone else   
to know. He might care."  
  
"True enough," he chuckled weakly, and we started for the stairs.  
  
Two sections of chain link fence funneled us to a concrete and steel   
set of stairs, the kind that run free-standing; I could see a miserable   
square of dimly-lit green beyond it through the slats between steps.   
The hall ran on behind the stairs, but all the doors visible from our   
position said things like "Door locked for the patients' protection",   
or "Please enter upstairs". So we went up the stairs.  
  
I was silent, and trudged to concrete slats at a time. Zell hummed   
nervously to himself, and bounded up with a remnant of his usual   
energy. The back pack bounced with his strides, hitting his back   
with a hollow, nylon sound.   
  
The stairs left us after only a flight, and we were dumped onto an   
elevated concrete walkway. Not to keep emphasizing the concrete,   
but it was the really horrible kind, pebbly with "real" stones like some   
tragically doomed attempt at decorative functionality. Yuck. The   
walkway mostly surrounded a rectangle of open air that looked down   
on the grassy courtyard. It was fenced around, of course, but only to   
waist height, and I got the feeling that patients maybe weren't let   
outside unsupervised.   
  
Blank windows stared down at us from directly above and across the   
way. We weren't sure of Squall's exact location, but all my badgering   
at the Med had gotten me a more general area to begin the search:   
East Wing 4. It was like a spell, an incantation. East Wing 4. It didn't   
really mean anything to me, but was repeated obsessively in my head   
as we approached the guarded and locked glass doors. The walls were   
glass, windows on all sides, so you could see straight through the lobby   
to the lonely slice of meadow on the other side of the building, fenced as   
it was.   
  
There was a guard sitting at a small card table just inside the doors.   
I just stared at him for a long moment, but Zell made a little waving   
motion, and he hit a button like a remote car alarm or garage door   
closer. Something buzzed loudly, and one of the doors popped open   
about an inch. I grabbed the handle before it could close again, and   
slipped inside.  
  
A group of resident doctors, young and chattering and apparently freed   
from their shift, brushed past us through the same door. They had keycards,   
and asked the guard for nothing. We approached his table slowly, Zell   
casting curious glances to a glassed-in reception desk.  
  
"Do we have to sign in?" Zell guessed, loudly enough for the guard to   
overhear. He nodded, overweight and grizzled, and nudged a clipboard   
forward across the small table.  
  
"Patient's name, your name," he said boredly, pointing to each row in turn   
as he handed Zell a cheap pen. Zell scrawled Squall's name quickly, then   
his own, and handed the pen over to me. I looked down at what Zell had   
written, and felt sick for a moment.  
  
The guard directed us over to the reception desk with a careless wave of   
one hand. We walked around the three free-standing metal detectors, not   
through them, but he didn't seem to notice. The woman behind the glass   
was on the phone and fiddling with a switchboard; from what I could hear   
she was locating a doctor for someone who sounded exceedingly pissed   
off.   
  
There was a large clock on the wall behind her, with visiting hours posted   
prominently beside it. The elevators, across from the reception desk, also   
boasted another such sign, as well as a variety of notices involving who   
could ride the elevator and when. Most of the prohibitions referred to   
patients and their guests.  
  
Zell was tapping impatiently at the glass shielding her from us, and I began   
calculating an escape plan. The walls were beige. The people were ignoring   
me. I'd been here for five minutes and I was already getting twitchy. Squall   
must be out of his mind by now! The minute hand eased forward again, and   
I blatantly adjusted my gun, very aware that our single visiting hour was   
slipping by rapidly.  
  
"No weapons allowed," a voice said behind me. It was the guard. Apparently   
he was capable of moving on his own after all. "No weapons, pens, pencils,   
compasses, glass, flowers, or playing cards."  
  
"Flowers?" Zell asked incredulously. "Why can't he have flowers?"  
  
"We've had patients eat them before," the guard said.  
  
"Look, Squall is *not* going to try to eat these flowers," I countered, glaring   
at the man.  
  
"Other patients might," he shrugged.  
  
"Okay, one, why would these patients have access to his things, and two,   
who cares?" I asked, gesturing wildly with my free arm as the anger built.   
"Flowers are non-toxic, who really cares?"  
  
"Doctors orders," he said, his voice invoking ritual rather than one specific   
possessive. No one had ordered this. It was custom. And custom is   
something that can't really be argued with. Not successfully, anyway. Not   
in just the few minutes we had.  
  
I looked down at the flowers in my hand, at the glass vase I'd bought not an   
hour before, at Exeter's strap across my chest, and grinned sickly.   
  
"What else can't he have?" I asked. My voice sounded dead.  
  
"The receptionist has a list," the guard said, apparently bored to tears and   
wanting only to get back to his station. "I'm only supposed to stop weapons   
and purses."  
  
"Right," I said, feeling numb. I unstrapped Exeter's sheath, setting down the   
flowers to get the knives out of my boots.  
  
I didn't remove everything. I'm not that recovered from the war.  
  
He took my pile of weaponry back to his card table, shaking his head. Zell's   
gloved hands went unnoticed, and the guard hadn't actually searched me,   
so neither of us were helpless. That was something, anyway.  
  
The receptionist finally hung up the phone, and we pounced.  
  
"Patient's name?" she asked, almost managing to sound interested.  
  
"Squall Leonheart," Zell said, leaning forward to speak into the window.   
I wanted to applaud his discretion, so rare in the martial artist, but I had   
the sick feeling this little secret wouldn't stay hidden for long.  
  
"Listen, the guard said we can't take flowers up," I began, leaning in with   
my most charming non-sexual smile. "Could you maybe leave them at a   
nurse's station or someplace where he could see them?"  
  
She looked up from the box of index cards she'd been rifling through,   
staring at the flower arrangement like she'd never seen such a thing.  
  
"I'll have to ask his doctor," she said, pulling out two cards and placing   
them on the counter along with two bright green visitor's passes. They   
were laminated, and had little alligator-teeth clamps.   
  
"Could you do that?" I prompted, eyes glittering with what she probably   
thought was gratitude. It wasn't.  
  
"We have some other things for him," Zell added, heaving his backpack   
up onto the counter. "Can we take this up?"  
  
"No, but we can give him the contents," she said, as though the scene   
had been memorized by rote long ago. "Provided they are approved by   
his doctor."  
  
"It's just some stuffed animals and a paperback I thought he might like," Zell   
said, almost whining. I was getting sick of these rules, too.   
  
"I can't let him have the back pack," she repeated, pulling out another   
clipboard from the pile of paperwork scattered across her desk. I clipped   
my visitor's pass to my collar, where it stuck out jauntily. "The stuffed   
animals can probably go up, and maybe the book. What all do you have   
in there?" she continued, pen poised to record our answer.  
  
"Why?" I asked, probably sounding as cranky as I felt. Our hour was slipping   
away.  
  
"We keep records of the patient's possessions so that they can be returned,"   
she explained, again from routine.   
  
"Fine," Zell said. "Two stuffed animals and three books, one back pack, and   
a vase with flowers, okay?"  
  
"You understand the vase can't go up," she said as she wrote. She was   
wearing scrubs, the ubiquitous hospital uniform. Was she a nurse?   
  
"Yes, yes, we understand that," Zell said impatiently. "But you're going to ask?"  
  
"Sure, honey, I'll check on that for you first thing in the morning," she said absently,   
working the vase through the large square in her protective window. She set the   
flowers on a file cabinet, saying absently that they sure smelled nice, and pulled   
out a roll of masking tape. "I'll label these for you if you want to go on up," she said,   
already marking the backpack with tape and pen.  
  
"Where is he?" Zell asked, looking blankly at his card. I looked down at mine.   
The incantation was scrawled beneath Squall's name in abbreviated form: E-4.  
  
"Just take those elevators, honey," the receptionist pointed from behind us. I   
nodded, glancing at the clock. Nearly eight. It had seemed to take longer.  
  
On a guess I hit the button for the fourth floor. The elevator was slow, and large,   
and smelled of a dangerous musk. It hit me then: this wasn't a hospital.   
  
There was no smell of disinfectant, no flowers allowed in the rooms, no cheerful   
nurses with bright smiles and loving hearts to turn down bed sheets and administer   
morphine. This was no hospital.  
  
This was something far more frightening.  
  
The elevator groaned to a halt, and we exited into a small yellow room with   
doors in each of its other three walls. Pierced on all sides, like a heart. The   
door across from the elevators looked like it had been painted shut, like a   
rarely-used window sill. The doors to our left were labeled with a large 'W',   
the doors to our right with a large 'E'. Each door had a sign over a small   
buzzer that said "Ring for admittance", but there were two other people in   
this small yellow room.  
  
One was visiting, and the second an employee; they'd just emerged from   
'W', and she turned from locking the door with a frown, saying "He's on   
East, you should have said that before," and leading the visitor across to   
the doors marked 'E'.  
  
We followed, flashed the little card and gained admittance to hell.  
  
Okay, it wasn't all that bad, but it was still depressing. Just a long, bare   
room, with scattered wooden furniture and sad, thinly-padded couches,   
one TV on a rolling cart, and a glassed-in nurse's station in the northeast   
corner, by another set of doors. There was also a set at the opposite end,   
beneath another large clock.   
  
The opposite wall was actually another bank of floor to ceiling windows,   
these wired and caged and shuttered, utterly blocked from the night. A   
number of employees sat at one long table, ignoring us, which was amusing   
as they were apparently their as security. A few patients were huddled with   
visitors at the other end of the long room.  
  
The woman who had, perhaps unintentionally, given us entrance finally came   
to see what we needed. I just held up my card mutely, and Zell said, "Squall   
Leonheart, that's L-E-O-N-H-E-A-R-T, in E-4."  
  
"Right," she said, grinning briefly. "The 'whatever' man," she continued,   
before waving us to a little couch across from the security-stifled windows   
and heading for the doors at the north end of the room, by the nurse's   
station. There was a man behind the glass. She said something to him   
as we moved to sit down, and he buzzed her through.  
  
Then we waited.  
  
My knee was jigging nervously. My gut was churning. I'd felt less anxious   
preparing to kill the woman who'd raised me, raised us all.  
  
Zell was uncharacteristically silent, though his fists were clenched and his   
teeth apparently grinding together. I had a feeling the silence wouldn't last   
very long.  
  
A wail echoed down the room. My head whipped around, hat caught by   
reflex, and I caught sight of an older woman rocking back and forth in the   
arms of another woman who could've been her sister. I blinked. Mental   
hospitals were co-ed? Hmph.  
  
It's surprising how quickly you become numb.  
  
I felt Zell giving me a look, so I turned to face his gaze, hot and hungry   
and ready to kill.   
  
Oh yes. Zell was pissed, and likely to raise hell once we'd left. At least   
he knew better than to upset Squall.   
  
Speaking of, the doors opened. I jumped to my feet, caught sight of the   
nurse who'd let us in and a slimmer, shorter dark-haired figure. It slammed   
into my gut, the knowledge of just how small Squall really is. We think of   
him as larger than life, because usually he seems it. I guess all facades   
break under enough pressure.  
  
My heart was fluttering. I saw his head come up, and he caught sight of us   
over the nurse's broad shoulder. Zell was on his feet beside me, bobbing   
impatiently so that his blond crest resembled a walking chocobo.   
  
Squall grinned.  
  
My heart fell to my feet, below my feet, and yet spiraled up with fear and   
a delirious joy of reunion. I strained forward on my toes, feeling unable to   
move as the nurse moved to the side and he came clearly into view. Zell   
stepped forward, and this broke my paralysis as I stepped up with him,   
striding to meet our imprisoned Commander who was *grinning* at us   
like we were water and he was dying of thirst and we met him halfway--  
  
--and he fell into Zell's arms and caught the back of my neck in his hug,   
bowing me down to shelter his back and wrap and arm around his waist.  
  
He was crying softly, and still smiling.  
  
"You came," he said, a broken man. "You came."  
***  
  
A/N Some mental hospitals suck. A lot. This was one of that kind.   
If you've been to a nice one, congratulations. Just be warned, it   
gets worse from here on in, as I diverge from reality and move   
into the fantasy of this story-line. Okay, actually that should go   
after the next chapter, which will be a nice peaceful visit in which   
Squall complains and Zell and Irvine get really pissed. Heh. 


End file.
